


5 Mundane Rumours about Professor Velvet (And the truth of them)

by Harukami



Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harukami/pseuds/Harukami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Academics do like to tell rumors. Here are five things said about Professor Velvet, and the truth that inspired them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 Mundane Rumours about Professor Velvet (And the truth of them)

Most professors accumulate a wide variety of rumours throughout their tenure. Professor so-and-so is actually seeing you-know-who. _That_ professor scratches his nuts when distracted, seriously, just watch him. The 3:00 class will always be taken by _this_ Professor because she sleeps in until noon every day and only wakes up in time for this one. Little inconsequential things, people filling in the gaps in their lives which they don't know.

Professor Velvet, nicknamed Professor Charisma by some of his students (for reasons he himself had never managed once to wrap his mind around beyond the vague suspicion they might be making fun of him), was no exception.

 

1\. Professor Velvet had a secret girlfriend

a)

This one came about because, sure enough, he was never seen with anyone in any situation that could possibly be seen as romantic. He lived alone and, by the end of his time with the school, he had done so, to the best of anyone's knowledge, for forty years. 

The idea that he was single was one that was nearly unanimously rejected. Professor Velvet was popular among many of the girls and no small number of the boys; when he had been a young professor, it was partially that he was young and thus approachable, and when old, he had a quiet, dignity about him that didn't preclude the occasional surprising quip, and he never quite lost his good looks. He had never been stunning or pretty, but he had been _striking_ , with strong angular features and a tendency to a heavy brooding expressions broken by surprising, childish smiles. And he had a deep romantic streak, one that could be hard to bring out, but if anyone got him onto the subject they'd hear about a belief in true love, a belief in love that could transcend barriers and change people.

So, if he wasn't seen with anyone, and if he calmly but firmly rejected anyone who made an effort (of which there were enough to make its own rumour for a while), he surely was already spoken for. He'd referenced family in Canada before -- perhaps, the old joke of a girlfriend in Canada was true in his case? Did he spend late nights on the telephone with someone he lived far from? Was that the source of the lonely, irritated expression he was occasionally caught with when he gazed out the window towards the river?

People wondered and admired how he bore it with dignity, whatever it was.

 

b)

He played video games from nearly the time he got home until the time he went to bed, when he wasn't studying or practicing more important things. He bought each console as it came out, and had a game collection that would make most serious collectors weep out of joy and want. More evenings were spent sprawled out on his futon, playing, than spent otherwise.

The truth of the matter was, he just wasn't interested and he didn't bother looking. The idea of sharing his life with another living person was an admirable ideal, but not one he wanted. His heart was too full of other things, plans for the future which would be impossible to explain, a devotion that, he was sure, would outshine any romance. The idea of even dating felt as like he'd be leading someone on, poor sods. 

He didn't want to pour himself out into someone else, to find an equilibrium suspended with two people; for now, for this time he had, he wanted to cram himself as full as possible with knowledge, with strategy, with games and tactics and enjoyment of what those could bring. If he went to the grave bursting at the seams with how much he took in, he couldn't ask for much more.

 

2\. Professor Velvet was easy to get drunk

a)

Nobody was sure exactly where that one got started -- but surely it was true, right? He was skinny and spindly and although he indulged heavily in cigars, he didn't seem like the type who could hold his booze. It was only common sense.

So a number of the professors would invite him out after class for drinks, half as part of normal socialization, and half to see how he reacted. He would accept every time and, every time, would drink them under the table.

Nobody was sure exactly how he'd gotten to be _so_ adept at drinking, but there it was; sure, he'd be showing the signs of it in the flush of his cheeks and his sudden gregarious way of speaking, or the way he'd start ripping apart magical theories with a sharp and vicious turn of phrase, but by the time everyone else was ready to call quits, he'd be still ready to go.

Regardless, the rumour somehow persisted.

b)

Of course, he _practiced_. He absolutely expected that his ability to drink would eventually be tested, so long as his hopes came true -- and he'd gone over the theories easily a hundred times, and saw no reason why they wouldn't. Well, barring of course the possibility that they were _wrong_ , but if they were wrong he'd be just plain dead, off in Akasha and completely unable to give a damn about all those wasted hours of practicing drinking. So, looking at it that way, there was absolutely no way that it wouldn't pay off.

At first, he'd been an absolutely miserable drunk, but as he got used to it, as he grew to recognize the shifts in his lines of thought, in the way his body moved, in the thickness of his tongue, he began to enjoy the sense of analysing these changes, learning to compensate for them. It was a fine line, he'd thought more than once, between practicing drinking and becoming an alcoholic, but by God, it was a line he was willing to walk.

He spread a rumour that he was easy to get drunk, though; it got him more than a few free drinks from colleagues, and besides, they should see their _faces_.

 

3\. Professor Velvet was obsessed with power and fame

a)

He went beyond workaholic. He published paper after paper after paper, all exploring various elements of developing magical skill when the number of Circuits were lacking in an individual. Everything expanded on his first thesis -- the theory of which could be summarized that a mage didn't need a strong lineage to be a strong magus, which of course ran counter to all the selective breeding and other such things that magi had been doing for centuries. If there were a way for a magus from a young family to become more skillful, he studied it, expanded on it, practiced it.

"You're a better teacher than you are a mage," one of his colleagues told him, once, when they were both well into their drink. "You teach and guide with the best -- no, perhaps you _are_ the best. But that's where your skill lies. As interesting as your work always is, best to apply it to the students who have just long enough a lineage that they can take best advantage of it to keep up with those from the oldest families."

Professor Velvet had glared at him over the rim of his glass, drained it, and said, "I don't give a damn about that. Good for all of them. But if I'm a better teacher than I am a mage, I'd better keep studying until everyone says the opposite."

The desire for power grips everyone hard, they all thought regretfully. Here he was, the best at something, and all he wanted was to be better at something more dramatic, something that would bring him personal fame instead of helping him boost others to it.

b)

He didn't give a damn about fame. He already had a yardstick for what 'fame' was, and the idea of anyone in this modern age reaching that was absurd. Of course, he thought, he'd get chided for not thinking big enough, but he didn't care about that either; it wasn't his own fame he was living for, and it certainly wasn't his own fame he was striving to increase his personal power for.

But if he were to be in an army, he wished to hold his own. If he were ever to be a Heroic Spirit himself, to be able to answer to the class of Caster, he wanted magecraft he could bear with strength, and be able to be proud to stand by other brave warriors.

Whatever he could learn now, he could bring to bear under his king's banner later.

 

4\. Professor Velvet only bathed once a month

a)

This was an odd one, of course, because he was _Professor Charisma_ and oddly attractive and charming and, as was already noted, he had no few people attempting to make the moves on him as a result.

But the truth was that he did tend to smell, well, sweaty.

His hair got greasy easily, and while he _looked_ clean enough, he had just a faint whiff around him at all times of personal body odour. It was never quite enough to make people want to avoid him, but it was also unmistakable. 

Once a week, some people said. Once a month, others did. Or maybe he just didn't do laundry very often. Yes, that was probably it, and he was always wearing that red jacket. It had probably picked up the smell.

b)

It had, and no, he didn't wash it, because sewn into the lining was a piece of fabric too fragile to survive washing, and he'd be damned before he caused its destruction. But he wasn't going to keep it packed up and sterile and safe, either. A cape is meant to be worn; keeping it distant and safe was anathema.

He did clean it, though, if not by washing. The steam from some mixtures would take the scent away, get into the fibres and help freshen them. It wasn't a deep cleaning, but that piece of fabric couldn't handle it, so that was what he could do. And he _bathed_ , of course -- well, usually. Some nights there was a particularly tough game, or he was particularly caught up in his work, or he'd gotten particularly drunk, and a few days could pass. But it wasn't like he'd go a month.

Still, sometimes, he could smell himself a little, and the strange part was, he rather liked it. It reminded him of another man's smell, sweat and musk which had enveloped him night after night, that little room back in Fuyuki unable to get the scent out of it. He didn't give a damn what other people thought those times, just touched the faint lump in his jacket and smiled to himself.

 

5\. He wanted his memorial to be a sombre event.

a) 

This, the Mage's Association just took for granted. Of course he would have wanted this to be a sombre event. He was a dignified magus, if not a powerful or a noble one, a great teacher who had helped many others to greatness, with ...interesting theories.

That he'd drunk and worked himself to death in his eighties was, in its own way, just something to be gently swept under the rug. He'd certainly survived enough that dying in old age was itself something to prattle on about, regardless of how it had come about.

The event went on for hours, professors and associates and previous students of his droning on to a captive audience, all sitting in their chairs trying to pay attention. They talked about his skill as a lecturer, mostly, and his passion for history, and how he always tried to drill into his students that the drive of the past was something they could carry forward into the future, to view their next goals, always out of their reach, as something to strive for, and they would find it inside themselves. 

They carefully avoided mentioning any of the rumours that had surrounded his life. Such things did not belong in such a grave affair.

b)

> He wakes with sunlight filtering through the tent. It's bakingly hot, and he rubs his face as he sits up, looks down at fingers so youthful and strong that it takes a moment and thinking back a good fifty years to recognize them as his own, and thinks, _ah._
> 
> He pushes long black hair back from his face and makes the bed tidily, opening the chest at the foot and pulling on his clothes: trousers, shirt... he considers the jacket, but it's too hot, and he doesn't much need it now, does he? He rolls his sleeves up. 
> 
> This is out of time, he thinks; this is his first arrival here, but it is set up for him. He exists here for the first time, but he will always exist here now, and any other moment of time where he is needed he can return to from here, because his 'now' will move forward into eternity. 
> 
> It's loud outside the tent, he suddenly realizes, the noise of cheering and camaraderie. His heart tightens in his chest for the second time in the last few minutes, and he puts a hand over it to make sure it won't stop, then squares his shoulders and strides out.
> 
> The drinking party is in full swing. He has only ever seen most of these men before in armour, not their casual clothing, but some of their faces were distinctive enough to burn themselves into his memory for many years. Still, after a brief glance, he's not paying attention to any of them at all.
> 
> He knows he's staring, wants to call out, but his breath is strangled in his throat and he can't seem to get it out. It doesn't matter; Iskander looks up anyway, and bursts into a broad smile.
> 
> "Boy!" he calls. "So you've arrived!" and he holds out his arm.
> 
> Waver Velvet runs to him and bursts into helpless tears, great wracking sobs, in front of the entire Ionian Hetairoi. 
> 
> _Oh God_ , he thinks, _they're going to talk about this for years_ , and despite the fact that the idea should be mortifying, with that arm wrapping around him and crushing him to that chest, he can't find it in him to mind at all.


End file.
